Changing Faces
by EtLaBete
Summary: Modern day. Erik, quiet, bitter, and alone, attends a weekly group meeting for the facially disfigured so that he doesn't feel completely isolated from the world. He is a silent bystander, never involving himself with the others, until a new face with a similar penchant for music joins and takes an interest in him despite his mask. One shot. Completed.


There was a new face today.

Many had come and gone throughout the years and years Erik had been coming to this support group for those with facial disfigurements, punningly called Changing Faces. Young men, old women, sometimes teenagers who held a dark, brooding grudge against the world and God for their drawn lot. Some had been born defaced and others had come into it, but all were welcome.

Erik wasn't sure why he kept coming. He'd stumbled upon the group during one of his darker moments seven years before, needing _something_ to stop him before he finally dove off of the metaphorical deep end. He'd come regularly ever since.

And yet, the group had never injected him with the courage to be seen in public, to show his deformity. He'd never dared, not even at the best of times, not even after seeing others overcome their deformities and step into the light.

In fact, at the worst of times, he still stood in front of his mirror and tortured himself with a view of his own face.

Part of it was loneliness. He had never belonged, but as much as he hated people, these people were different, however marginally. They were like him, shredded by fate and left raw and bleeding. They still looked at him oddly, sometimes uncomfortably, always off put by the black, leather mask that covered his face from upper lip to forehead, but at least they understood. Even if they still would have run at the sight of him— and they would have— at least they understood what it was like to be freakish.

And if he was honest with himself, he also liked to see them suffer because then— and only then— did he feel like he was sharing in a part of something.

The new face was not badly injured. There were a few small scars along her forehead, her nose bridge, and just above her lip. A stark, white bandage was plastered to a pale cheek, hiding whatever ugliness marred the otherwise perfect, freckled flesh. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, and she was wary. Erik had seen a similar look in young dogs at the pound who had faced the world and come away scarred. She glanced around from underneath a curtain of dark curls, fidgeting in her chair and waiting for a chance to escape.

"Everyone, this is Christine," Margaret, the group leader, announced as the voices quieted. "She will be joining our weekly meetings. Please welcome her with open arms."

"Hi, Christine." It was a chant of welcome, of acceptance.

She still looked like she would take flight at any moment.

"Why don't you tell us what has brought you here today," Margaret continued.

Her "no" was resounding. Everyone sat back in their cold fold-out chairs, their expressions teetering between startled and offended.

Panic bloomed in her dark eyes. She swallowed, took in a deep breath and said, her voice barely above a whisper, "I'm sorry, I'm just not ready to talk about it."

Their eyes and faces softened, tension rolling off of them like a summer rain, and many of the older members smiled sadly, remembering when they were young and afraid, unsure if they would be accepted.

Erik didn't buy it. Not at all. The look in her eyes wasn't fear.

It was loathing.

* * *

Erik hardly ever spoke during meetings. He hated speaking about himself, about his feelings, because even these people would find it all too dark. They came here seeking shelter, seeking a light at the end of a tunnel called despair, and his words would only jade them. He liked to listen to them, though, their ordinary, friendly, sometimes angry and depressed voices. They lamented and then they overcame it.

Watching them hurdle over their obstacles was the closest he'd ever come to a miracle.

_Forgiveness._ That was Margaret's favorite word. Margaret, who was missing her left eye after a horrible car accident as a teenager, preached forgiving those who screamed, those who stared and jeered and laughed. She never forced Erik to speak, but sometimes, when she was offering life advice, she would sit forward in her seat and stare right at Erik, as if she knew he was capable of crueler things.

Erik wondered what it would feel like to forgive. He'd never even felt the slightest caress of it against his conscience. He was sure that he didn't have it in him.

The new face, Christine, didn't, either. He could tell almost immediately. Even when she spoke, her words were calculated, measured, delivered with the perfect mixture of shyness and a slight quiver of the voice. She wanted them to see her as weak because she was afraid of what they would see below the surface, even more afraid than she was of them seeing her face.

He was drawn to her as he listened. He watched her hungrily, ignoring the homely beauty of her face, the curve of her body under her loose t-shirt, and watched her eyes.

They were the color of black coffee and just as acrid.

"Christine, would you like to share today?"

She'd been coming for a few weeks, but she'd hardly spoken. This time, she wrung her hands together, twisting the flesh around her fingers until her skin rotated between bleached white and angry red.

"It's all right," Margaret soothed, "if you would rather not share. We aren't here to push you or judge you. We just want to make sure that you know you're not alone here."

If Erik thought back, it was probably Margaret's quiet comfort and reproachful but gentle looks that had lured him in and allowed him to return week after week. She was a rock, one of the few constants that had weathered the storms over the last decade. If anyone could get the girl to talk, to ooze into the quiet acceptance of disfigurement, it was Margaret.

And he was right.

Christine shook her head, her jaw twitched. Taking a deep breath, she said, "I was in an accident."

"Go on," Margaret said softly. Others nodded their agreement, urging her to open up to them.

"I can't," she said suddenly and stood. Her chair scuttled backwards, the horrible sound of metal meeting concrete blaring across the silence. Horrified, she ducked behind her hair, mumbled an apology, and left.

Margaret smiled sadly to those who still remained. "She's young. She'll come around."

Erik didn't doubt that she could; he only wondered if she would.

* * *

He was early. It was beautiful outside. Autumn had settled over the city, nudging summer back over the horizon and cooling the air with the prelude of winter. The trees were beginning to brighten, to burn.

He didn't dare enjoy the weather. The streets were busy today, filled with fearful, blunt children and women who still held on to their Victorian genetic predisposition to faint. Instead, he sat in the dull, concrete room, surrounding by a circle of empty chairs. It would be at least half an hour before any of the others arrived, so he soaked in the solitude.

Voices dragged him away from his book shortly after he opened it. They were just outside the double doors, somewhat muffled by the walls, but he could hear the fascinating pitch of anxiety.

"I don't want you to come in."

"I just want to support you, Christine—"

"You made me come here," she all but snarled, "so you will let me do it on my own. I don't want to share this with you. You wouldn't understand."

The doors opened and Erik turned his eyes back to his book.

"Christine, please," the man pleaded.

Her breath shuddered out of her. "Go away. Now. Leave."

"Fine. Have it your way."

The door slammed shut and there was silence before he heard her sneakered feet shuffle towards the carrousel of chairs. She sat down several seats from him. He didn't look up.

"Sorry," she said. "About that."

He just shrugged.

More silence. He was staring at the crisp pages, but he wasn't soaking in the words. Instead, he counted her breaths, listened to the squeak of the cushion as she re-situated herself. She was anxious. She was frustrated. She was—

"Do you play?"

He looked up sharply. She was staring at him. A strange expression crossed her face when their eyes met, but she didn't look away. Instead, she cocked her head and waited.

He cleared his throat. "Excuse me?"

She sighed gently, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "This is the first time you've spoken. You have a very beautiful voice."

"Oh?" he said, mildly irritated, though he didn't know why.

"Do you play?" she asked again.

"Play what?"

"The violin."

He closed his book and leaned forward, staring at her with an intensity he hoped unnerved her. He didn't like being read. "The violin?" he repeated.

With the first semblance of a smile he'd seen curve her lips, she held out her hand. The fingertips were pale, marred, callused.

"So," she said, letting her hand fall back into her lap. "Do you play?"

"Yes," Erik said quietly. "And piano."

Her smile bloomed, a summery brightness in the dullard winter of the concrete room.

He looked away when the door burst open and a few of the regulars waltzed in. She was staring at him still, he could feel it, but he didn't meet her gaze again.

* * *

The meeting ended at precisely 8 o'clock. Erik stood and walked through the slowly forming groups, heading for the door. Most of the regular attendees saw each other outside of group, basking in their ability to enjoy social settings. He had been invited, but he'd never dared accept.

"Christine, I'm so glad to see you coming regularly," Margaret was saying. "I know it can be difficult at first, but even Erik comes regularly, and he's a recluse, so stay positive. It will get easier."

Erik couldn't help the twitch of a smile that twisted his lips. Recluse.

"Yeah, thanks. I hope it will," Christine replied, her voice a mixture of discomfort and gratitude.

"Why don't you come out with a few of us to dinner?" Margaret asked, her voice rising in excitement.

"Oh." Christine paused. "Will Erik come?"

"Erik never comes to these things," Margaret all but scoffed, talking about him like a little brother. "He attends group like he's on a pilgrimage, but he doesn't like to come out. We don't push."

Erik disappeared through the propped-open doors, the rest of the conversation lost to his ears.

* * *

Every meeting, she came one seat closer to him, though she hadn't tried to speak to him again. Instead, she glanced at him when she thought he wasn't looking, like a lover who couldn't help but gaze, however sidelong, at the object of her affection.

He wasn't so stupid as to think this young girl had any romantic interest in him, but something had interested her. He just wasn't sure what.

He knew what had struck him, though. He couldn't help staring at her hands. Long, pale fingers, lightly polished nails trimmed perfectly short so as not to interfere with the strings of her violin. Sometimes, she would tap her thigh in a pattern his mind strummed into music, bringing the rhythm to life inside of his head. He wondered how well she played. He wondered if he would ever hear her play. He wanted to. He wanted to see her dark eyes when she was being eaten alive by the music.

It wasn't often that he had a chance to meet people who loved music in the same pure way he did. Music was a part of him. He breathed music. He dreamed music. He coped and continued on mostly because of music. It had been his beautiful solace during a lifetime of struggle.

She didn't need to tell him, and he didn't need to ask. Erik knew she was the same as he just by watching her anxiety manifest in the tapping of her fingers. The curiosity struck him at all hours of the day, but especially at night when his mind was blank except for the scores her fingers danced to.

Interestingly, even though she had been coming to Changing Faces for several weeks now, the bandage had not budged. He wondered if the wound had healed. He wondered what had happened to her. He wondered so many things about a woman for the first time in years but he never dared to ask. He wasn't sure he wanted to open that door.

He wasn't so immature and delusional to think it was it was anything but a raw attraction, but that didn't stop it from consuming him.

Could she tell? He wondered. No matter when he walked in, be it an hour early or fifteen minutes late, she was there, and she always looked up at him with a slow smile, as if she wasn't sure it was all right.

"Dickens," she said one day.

Startled, he looked up from his book. When had she come in? It was rare that anyone snuck up on him, but she stood before him, her curls pulled back in to a messy braid and a curious expression on her face.

For lack of a better response, he intoned, "What?"

"Dickens," she repeated, gesturing towards the book in his lap. "I didn't know people still read Dickens for pleasure."

"I'm not most people."

She smiled again, the same way she had when she accosted him about playing the violin. She sat directly across from him this time, leaning forward so her hands rested in her palms.

"What else do you enjoy reading?"

Was she trying to start a conversation? She watching him imploringly, her eyebrows rising higher and higher while the seconds ticked away without a response from him. Hope fluttered in his chest like a caged bird with freedom in sight.

"Erik?"

Swallowing and forcing calm, he closed his book and sat up a little straighter. "I enjoy the classics."

"I'm surprised."

His eyes narrowed. "Why is that?"

"I'm not sure," she said thoughtfully. "You're not very conventional."

Even if she hadn't intended it as such, the comment rained down on him like hellfire. He looked down at the cover of _David Copperfield _and tried not to shred the spine of the beautiful, leather-bound pages.

"I guess not," he said stiffly, cruelly.

"Oh."

He looked up. _Oh, indeed_, he thought. _She caught on_.

She looked pained, ashamed. "I didn't mean it that way."

"Of course not," he responded softly, voice still monotonous. "No one ever does." Before she could answer, he continued on. "I would appreciate ending this conversation. Save your babbling for group."

She didn't say another word. He could feel her eyes on him, but he didn't look up or at her. When group ended, he left quickly, not willing to be snared.

* * *

The awkward glances only continued through the next session, and then Christine breached the wall he'd painstakingly reassembled. She sat two seats away from him and tapped the toe of her sneaker against the concrete floor for the entirety of the session. Erik hadn't even noticed that he'd done the same until Margaret finally bid everyone goodnight and Christine rounded on him, leaning forward and ignoring the woman with burn marks scorching her chin who had taken the seat between them.

"You do listen!" she said, grinning.

The woman gave Erik an odd look, hefted her purse onto her shoulder, and walked away.

"Are you trying to ignore me?" Christine continued when he shifted, sliding his arms into his jacket.

"No. Just choosing not to respond," he said testily, though on the inside, he was giddy.

"Oh, please."

He looked at her in time to see her purse her lips and shake her head at him, disappointed.

"I was only trying to be friendly, one musician to another."

"You consider yourself a musician because you can tap along to a beat?" he asked sardonically.

"I consider myself a musician because I can serenade Mozart into a corner with my violin skills," she said, rather emphatically.

Erik laughed before he could stop himself. The sound alone made her eyes brighten and he felt oddly uncomfortable under such an interested gaze. He was used to people staring, but they were staring at the mask, wondering what was beneath. He knew she was curious, and yet she seemed oblivious to it now as she grinned, hands clasped together.

"I want to hear you play," she said, somewhat more seriously.

"No." He stood and began to button his jacket.

"It's not often…"

The words trailed off, and he turned his head slightly so that he could look at her. She was biting her lip, her expression thoughtful.

"It's not often that I find someone I think I could truly connect with on a musical level," she finally managed, stumbling a little over the words as her cheeks pinked.

What she didn't say, couldn't say, was that no one understood her because of her face. Even if they had before, it already changed for her. He could see it in the meek way she spoke. Maybe she had been outgoing once, maybe she had performed, but something stunted her now, both an emotional wound and a shallow fear of acceptance. Erik knew those feelings well enough. He'd performed a little as a younger man, and while they'd loved him, thought him a genius, the mask was never erased from their view.

"You've never heard me play," Erik reminded her, unsure how to break away from her.

She stepped toward him, closing the distance between them, and looked up imploringly, hair raging curls falling away from her face. "No, but I chose pieces my violin instructor wouldn't have recognized without a little prompting, and then I made them my own. You recognized them. I watched you respond to them in kind. And your voice. You must sing. Your breath control is always perfect. Are you a baritone?"

Erik took a step backward, completely caught off guard. He thought he'd been watching her, living some one-sided interest, but she had been just as vigilant.

He swallowed the embarrassment down, glad that the mask hid his discomfort. He could control his voice, at least. "It isn't that it's personal—"

"Christine?"

Erik was suddenly aware— very, _very_ aware— that they were standing mere inches from each other. He stepped back and they both turned their heads towards the voice, the moment shattered.

A young man, maybe a little older than Christine, was propping open the doors. Blonde haired, blue-eyed, baby-faced, and lean, he was everything Erik had ever wished to be as a child. Jealousy reared it's green head, but he smothered it back down. There was nothing for him to be jealous about. Nothing could change.

The young man spared a glance at Erik and then had to do a double take once he registered the mask. The glance turned into a full-out stare. Erik tried not to scowl, but he was finding it hard to control his temper while the boy openly gawked at him.

If ever he had the guts to remove the mask, he would have done it now just to see the boy pale and run. He couldn't, though. Not with Christine there. Not with the chance that she would hear how horrible he really was.

Christine cleared her throat rather bluntly and the young man finally looked at her. Awkwardly, he said, "Christine, I've been waiting outside for nearly twenty minutes."

Christine grabbed her coat and shoved her arms into the sleeves like a disgruntled child, but Erik saw her face. The was anger there, a full-blown, dark anger.

He was glad that he wasn't going home to her with such a rancid storm on the rise.

He couldn't help himself, though. "Next time," he said quietly as he left her standing there. The young man stepped aside to allow Erik passage.

Under the mask, he grinned.

* * *

After that, they chatted after every session, sometimes for five minutes, sometimes for fifty. When he found it in himself to come early, she was already there, a book open on her lap and then forgotten the moment he walked into the room. When he said that he would stay to talk after group, she immediately dug out her phone, fingers pounding at the screen to ask her ride not to come or to come later, before she put it away, not to take it out again until the end of the evening.

It was odd, really. He wasn't sure he could get used to it, this tense, awkward friendship. He wasn't sure if he wanted to.

Loitering in the cold meeting room until the lights in the hallways shut off soon evolved into walking to a nearby coffee shop for warm drinks and discussions about music. At first, Erik refused, but she had convinced him with her sweet voice and smile. It was late enough that most of the other bodies were occupied by the glow of computer screens, and spare the baristas, no one paid him much mind but Christine.

He found out a few things about her, such as her age (twenty six), her degree (musical theory), and her most hated food (pears). Like him, she was elusive about more important topics of conversation, mostly her face and how it had happened.

Normally, he didn't tend to pry into other's lives, but he really wanted to pry into hers.

One evening, when the breeze was chilled and the sky moonless, he waited with her under a flickering lamp for the bus. He offered to call her a cab, but she refused, her voice rough with something he couldn't pinpoint.

"I like to take the bus," she reiterated, looking away. "It gives me time to think."

"What do you think about?"

"Chopin, mostly," she joked.

He stepped into her field of vision and cocked his head. "You don't like cars?"

Even in the bleached lamplight, he could see the color leak out of her face.

"I'm not fond of them." She raised a hand to brush her hair out of her face, and he didn't miss the way her fingers lingered on her bandaged cheek.

His voice was low when he said, "You've never told me what happened to your face."

The flow of her body changed. Her back stiffened, her fingers folded into fists, and her jaw clenched, making the muscles in her cheeks twitch. It reminded him of the first time he saw her at Changing Faces, withdrawn and loathing herself.

She inhaled, exhaled more shakily, looked up at him, and said, "Neither have you."

He shrugged.

"You know, if I think about it, I don't know much about you. I don't know anything about you, really." A smile tugged on her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm beginning to think there's nothing really wrong with you," she mumbled with a curt laugh. "You come to group, but you never say anything. I don't think you've ever said a single word during the meetings, actually. Do you use it as a chance to meet helpless, damaged girls like me who are easy prey?"

She reached up to touch his face, _his mask_. Erik knew deep down that it was a playful gesture, that she was teasing him the way young women teased, but something inside of him snapped, anyway.

He grabbed her wrist before her fingertips brushed the leather and squeezed. Her smile contorted into a pained frown and she tried to pull away, but he held her there, grip tightening more and more as she struggled to pull free.

"Let me go, Erik," she said, voice hoarse.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" he demanded lowly. "To get a rise out of me? What if I pulled the bandage from your face? Would you want me to see?"

Her eyes widened, dark and glassy. "No," she mouthed.

"I didn't think so." He let go of her hand and it fell, limp, to her side.

They stood there silently for a few minutes. Erik racked his brain for a way to apologize, but his blood was still pumping anger to his brain and he couldn't see anything but red.

The haze broke when her voice, quiet and sweet and devoid of anything, cut through.

"I'll wait for the bus alone, if you don't mind."

He looked down at her. Her hands were in her pockets and her face turned away.

"See you next week," he said and left her there.

* * *

It rained torrents, a chilled downpour that sunk through cloth, into the skin, and dug straight for the bone. The street was plied with black umbrellas under a dark sky, thick with angry grey clouds.

He hated the rain. It made the tangled flesh and bones of his face ache under the weight of the mask. He had considered not attending the group this week, had considered drugging himself with morphine and sleeping the evening away, but he found that he didn't want to be alone with the pain and the way his piano played in the silence of his condo.

She was damp from the storm, her dark curls frizzing around her like a smokey halo. Her cheeks, usually pale, were aglow with a soft pink from the chill. She offered a very brief and very unsure smile as she sat down next to him, but he looked away. He was still angry over last week, mostly at himself, and he wasn't ready to give up his grudge.

Margaret began as she usually did. "Good evening, everyone. Who would like to begin today?"

"I would."

Everyone, including Erik, turned to Christine with expressions of surprise. She was blushing furiously, but she slicked the damp curls away from her face and sat up a little taller.

"I'm ready to share." Her voice shook, her gaze was solid when she looked at Erik pointedly before saying, "Excuse me if I babble."

He winced, which elicited the flash of a smile from her.

"Oh, I'm glad to hear that you're ready to share, Christine," Margaret said softly, the full force of her smile aimed at the younger girl. "Please, start however you'd like. There is no such thing as babbling here."

It took her a few moments to gather the courage. "I was in an accident," she murmured unsteadily, unable to maintain eye contact any longer. Her fingers tapped dizzyingly against her thigh in a frenzied Shostakovich quartet. "About four months ago. It was a car accident. I was driving. I hadn't taken my medication." She shook her head, dispelling whatever fog has overcome her. "I'm on several different drugs. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was sixteen."

The words were flying out of her mouth in a painful rhythm of terror and embarrassment.

"I was having a manic depressive episode. My father had just died from cancer. I didn't take my meds, and it was raining pretty badly, kind of like it is today, and I swerved off of the road—"

She stopped, gulping in breath like she'd been forced under water and just surfaced. The blush had died away, leaving her ashen except for the spattering of freckles across her nose, the dark circles beneath her eyes, and the shiny pink of the small scars that lined her face.

"That's enough for today, Christine. You did very well," Margaret said gently, and Christine nodded, her dark eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Erik watched her. His eyes didn't leave her for the rest of the session. She stared at her lap, and the only time she ever looked up was to look at him, shy and ashamed. Her eyes, so dark with emotion that her irises had been devoured, searched for his, maintaining contact for a few painful seconds before he—_ he!— _ was forced to look away.

He had been horrible to her, hadn't he? Was this her way of repaying him, to bare herself to everyone when they both knew she held on things tightly? He longed to reach out to her, to wrap his hand around those frantic fingers, but didn't dare.

At the end of the session, she stood mechanically, smiling weakly as the others patted her on the back and congratulated her with her breakthrough. When most of the other members had finally dispersed, she touched the side of her face, her finally-still fingers pressing against the bandage, and a sickened frown twisted her lips.

Erik walked past her slowly. He did not look at her now, did not say a single word. He opened one of the double doors as she approached, and her fingers brushed his in passing, as light and as soft as a feather.

She didn't look back at him, just continued walking down the hallway, the bright blush of artificial, orange light turning her hair to fire.

* * *

Erik did not go to the next session.

He sat in his music room, the balmy, deep glow of dusk falling over him and his piano, and he played long into the night, his fingers brushing over the white and black keys like a lover. The music embraced him, soothed him, and when he was done, his face was damp beneath the mask.

When he closed his eyes, he could see her face, could feel the brief touch of her skin against his. Her smile had been a midsummer blossom, but the dark look in her eyes as she bared herself and implored him to watch had been as lush as the dark, deep velvet of an autumn sky.

Erik longed for her in a way he hadn't longed for anyone in quite some time, and he still wasn't sure why. She was pretty, of course, but she wasn't beautiful. She was young, at least a decade younger than he was, and she was broken. He could hardly keep his own demons at bay; he wasn't sure if he could handle the void of another. He'd tried before, the very few times his face had not been enough to dissuade others from loving him, but they'd all left, terrified of the despairing monster behind his warped flesh.

Years of hatred has soured him, and even the gentlest touch couldn't turn the vinegar back into wine.

Sleep refused to offer him refuge, and it was nearing dawn when he finally threw his covers back and stalked, barefoot, into the music room. The angry pitch of the keys being abused under his fingertips reverberated through him and numbed him to the core.

* * *

He did go to group the week after, arriving early in the hopes of steeling himself against her imploring gaze. The weeks without her presence had been just enough time for him to wall the desire off, to rebuild the steady wall that had kept him removed for so long. He felt safer with it, more at peace. As he walked down the dim hallway, he was sure he would be able to look away, to leave after the hour was up without the same swelling inside of his chest.

Erik nearly laughed when he heard it, an immediate chink in his armor. A crystalline voice floated to his ears, reached him even though he still had several long yards before he reached the doors. It was sweet, clear, and haunted. It beckoned to him, angelic and seductive at the same time, but Erik stilled and closed his eyes. Hs stomach tightened.

It was her. _Christine._ He knew it before he strode forward and pushed the doors to the dank meeting room open.

She sat in her normal seat, whitewashed in the fluorescent lights and staring down at a book in her lap. The sound of the metal hinges creaking made her voice falter and die off. She looked up sharply, the bandage on her cheek firmly in place and her eyes unblinkingly dark. She took a steading breath before she offered a tentative smile, but her face was flushed with embarrassment.

"Hello," she said, voice just barely above a whisper.

He nearly turned and left. His heart squeezed in his chest.

"Hello," he replied.

She looked down again, but she kept her eyes on him, studying him from head to toe before her gaze settled back on his face.

"You didn't come last week," she commented nonchalantly, twirling a strand of hair between her slender fingers, still nervous, her voice still shaking. "Margaret said you've never missed a session."

"Is that so." His voice was rough, gravely, icy, but inside, a torrential firestorm was burning holes into his stomach. He felt sick.

She shrugged. "Seems to be."

When he didn't answer, she leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. Briefly, he glanced at her hands, perched atop her knee. Her fingers were drumming along to one of Bach's partitas.

She was definitely nervous.

"I told you. Now tell me. Why do you wear a mask?"

_Ah_, he thought. _That's why._ He stared into her face. Anger and something else— fear, maybe? _Ah, yes._ The fear of looming rejection—plowed forth and he struggled to contain it.

"Why do you?" he inquired icily.

When her hand fluttered up to her cheek, he smiled hauntingly.

"No. Not that mask."

Understanding hardened her features, but a small, sad smile tilted her lips. "You do, as well. I'm one hundred percent sure no one in the group, not even Margaret, knows what you're really like. But we're the same, you and I. Is that why you're afraid to get close to me? Because you're afraid I'll figure you out?"

"The same?" he asked, snorting. "You and I are not the same, little Christine. What you hide under that little square of gauze is nothing in comparison to what's under this."

She bristled, grinding her teeth together. "So tell me," she demanded. "Better yet, show me, Erik."

He didn't wait for her to say anything else. Stepping forward, he commanded her, his voice husky with anger. "Only if you'll sing for me again."

He asked it of her without thinking, maybe hoping her pretty voice would bring him back down to earth, and she had given it to him, though he wasn't sure why Even sitting, her back bent against the uncomfortable chair and her head bowed so she could avoid his gaze, she sang like an angel. His heart twisted in his chest and he closed his eyes, wallowing in the beauty of her voice.

It wasn't what he expected, and he couldn't help himself.

As her voice tapered off, his deep baritone mingled with the beautiful melody for a split second before a deafening silence crowded the room. He let his eyes open slowly. She was already watching him, her eyes wide, her mouth open in a small "o" of awe. She looked like she might cry.

"Your voice," she whispered, standing, reaching for him. "Oh, Erik, I was right. Your voice."

He turned and walked back through the doors, passing a confused Margaret but offering no answer to her called questions of concern.

* * *

Erik composed like a madman for days, not leaving the music room to eat or sleep. When his housekeeper, Betina, arrived Monday morning, he was draped over his piano, delirious from the lack of nourishment and rest.

"In love?" she had asked him jokingly. At his moan of despair, she patted his head, careful to avoid the ties of the mask, and said, "_Pobrecito_."

Betina was a small, greying woman, barely surpassing five feet tall. She had a kind, wrinkled face, strong, work-worn hands, and though she spoke little English, she sang like an angel in her native tongue. His mask unnerved her, but she never showed any fear.

Erik didn't know much about Betina. When she interviewed, he'd given her the job simply because she hadn't even flinched at the sight of his mask. His decision had been brash, but she had never proven herself unworthy of the immediately judge of character. Betina was discreet and quiet. He'd heard others in the building questioning her as she put her copy of his key into the doorknob, but she always shooed them away. Though she would never fess to the horrors she'd witnessed in Venezuela before coming to the United States, Erik saw the hardness in her eyes and the way she held herself up, so he never thought it was necessary to ask.

In kind, she never asked him what lay behind the mask. It was a sweet truce, a considerate peace.

Erik allowed her to help him to the bathroom, to peel off his grimy clothes and run a warm, damp washcloth across his skin. His back and arms were latticed with small scars, phantasmal remnants of the years he'd suffered at the hands of others and himself, but Betina ignored them, her touch motherly and forgiving. When she finally helped him back to bed, she sang a quiet lullaby until he sank into the oblivion of sleep.

He slept for as many days as he'd slaved away to his music, waking only to eat. Betina, usually only scheduled for Mondays, came every evening to cook for him. By Thursday, he finally felt himself again, but he didn't dare go to group. When the phone rang, Betina answered it, only to walk into his room and hold it out to him a few moments.

"Margaret," she said.

Erik groaned and shook his head, but Betina's poignant look urged his hand forward. He placed the phone to his ear and tried to sound cordial.

"Good evening, Margaret. I hope you're well."

"Hi, Erik. I hope this isn't too forward."

"Not at all," he ground out. Her concern was painful and prying, but he would accept it. "How can I help you?"

"I just wanted to make sure you're all right. I know it's presumptuous of me, but you haven't missed a single meeting in years, Erik, and while you're not one to participate, I'm just a little worried." When he didn't answer, she asked, "Are you all right?"

He was surprised how much her words softened him.

"I've just been sick with the flu. Thank you for your worries, Margaret."

"I'm glad." She sounded glad, relieved. "Christine was especially worried. I'm really happy that she's opened up to someone. It seems like you two are getting along."

He almost hung up the phone at the sound of her name. "Not in particular."

"You don't need to be embarrassed. She's in a rough place. It's good for her to have someone to talk with. For you, as well. I know you don't like to hear compliments, but you have a very strong presence, and I don't mean because of the mask."

He looked at his window. Betina had opened it earlier in the evening to let the last remnants of the sweet, summer air linger inside. After tonight, the temperature was supposed to plummet.

He considered throwing the phone out the window.

"Erik?"

"Yes, Margaret, I'm still here."

She got the hint. "I won't bother you any longer. Feel better. I hope we see you next week."

"Goodnight."

* * *

He didn't go to group the week after or the week after that. The fiery trees of autumn burst into light and then slowly died, their brightness fading into crumpled compost, and the first true chills of winter laced the air.

Was he running away? Maybe. He wasn't so lost to reality that he didn't see avoidance in himself when it was shining so brightly. He refused to do anything about it, though. Even if he felt empty and angry all the time, his music was relentless.

Margaret called every Thursday when he missed group. He never answered calls, mostly because he was afraid her concern would change his mind. He missed group, missed the familiar, ruined faces, but he couldn't go back, not with Christine there, and it sounded like she was now a regular. He wasn't ready to be disarmed, and Erik was too vulnerable in his state to deal with the dark-haired songstress.

Eventually, Margaret stopped calling.

* * *

It was a crisp Monday in mid-November when the first snow fell. Thick, wet flakes tittered down to earth from the voluminous white expanse of sky, lightly dusting the tree limbs. The wind quieted for the first time in days, maybe weeks, allowing the dreary city a day of perfect beauty.

Erik tore himself away from the window and sat down at his piano. Days like this made him feel like Chopin, so he played.

Footsteps brushed the edges of his consciousness, but he didn't pause, didn't skip a note. Betina liked to listen to him play sometimes, so he kept his eyes closed and fell deeper into the music until he shook with the power of it.

When he did open his eyes, though, it was not Betina standing in the doorway, illuminated by the eerily bright, winter light streaming in through the windows. It was Christine, dressed in a black sweater and dark jeans, her mane of curls pulled over one shoulder in a braid. She watched him from beneath heavy eyelids, her breath coming quickly as she struggled out of the haze of his music.

She licked her pale lips and opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off, his voice tearing out of him.

"What are you doing here?" he snarled as he stood. The piano bench skidded across the polished hardwood, shrieking.

"You didn't come for weeks," she said, her voice a squeak. Her eyes were wide, but she didn't withdraw. "I wanted to see you. I begged Margaret to give me your address."

"You're not welcome here."

She took a step forward and his fury unleashed, freed from its bindings. He stalked towards her and grabbed her by the wrist, intent on pulling her from the room, but she reached up, grabbed the edge of the bandage on her cheek, and ripped.

The bandage floated to the floor and her cheek lay bare to the world, red and inflamed after it's demasking. Erik, still holding on to her wrist, stared down at the lattice of scars, the swirl of puckered, twisted flesh that extended from her cheekbone to just above her jaw.

"It healed weeks ago," she rasped, her voice breaking, "but I didn't have the courage to take off the bandage. I wanted you to see it, though. After I heard you sing, I knew." She looked up at him now, her dark eyes searching his face. "I knew that I wanted to show it you."

Erik let go of her wrist and took a few steps away. "Why?"

She shook her head emphatically. "Play for me," she urged, eyes glazed over with tears. "Take it off and play for me."

"What?" It? _It?_ The mask. His stomach knotted and he suddenly felt sick. "No."

"Erik, please."

"You do not know me, Christine," he seethed.

"I want to know you, or I wouldn't have done this." She gesticulated towards her face violently. "I wouldn't have come here. But here I am. Take it off, Erik."

She was near tears, but he shook his head. "No."

Begging now, her voice an angry whisper. "Just do it. Please."

"No," he repeated.

She turned on her heel and dashed out of the room, her footfalls echoing before the sound of his front door slamming shook his composure.

He teetered back towards the piano bench and sat down, relief and devastation ravaging through him. His heart thundered in his chest and he found it a little hard to breathe, so he pulled the bench forward and slammed his fists against the piano. It thundered, as well, vocalizing what he could not.

He closed his eyes and played.

The music was angry. It was painful. He wouldn't cry, wouldn't scream, wouldn't curse the heavens, but he could play and let the horrific, acidic sensation pour out of him instead of remain and burn him alive from the inside out.

He nearly felt normal again when Betina's voice sliced through the music, fearful and demanding.

"Don't go in!"

Erik's eyes opened just in time for him to see Christine in the doorway, ghostly pale in the winter light. She brought her violin to her chin, rested the bow on the strings, and jerked her arm.

The sound crippled him and his own fingers stumbled over the keys. She didn't allow it to hinder her. How did she know what to play? He wasn't sure. He'd started playing mindlessly, allowing his fingers to bring his wretched emotions to life, and somehow, she was following his key, but her notes were devoid of anger. They were deep, sad, and lonesome.

He began to play again, and this time, he did not falter. He did not close his eyes. He watched Christine play, her mangled cheek turned toward him. In the light, the scarred skin was finished with silver.

The way she played. _Oh_, the way she played, like there was nothing else and everything else.

He was on his feet before the last note of the piano tinkered through the air. "Betina, close the door!"

The housekeeper didn't argue. The door slammed, erasing Christine's only route of escape. She kept her eyes closed and flinched at the loud sound. Lowering her violin, her lids peeled back. She looked confused. Confused, but not scared.

"Do you want to see?" he asked lowly, walking towards her.

She didn't back up, but he could see the first spark of concern for herself leap into her pupils as they dilated. Good, he thought. Good! She should be afraid.

"Isn't that what you came here for? To see what's under the mask?"

She said nothing.

"Then, Christine, you shall have your wish granted."

He reached up to untie the first of the strings, but her bow hit the floor with a large crack and she grabbed his hand, stopping his fingers.

"Let me," she said.

She knelt down and placed her violin gently, like a child, into the black velvet inset of the case, then reached for the bow. Without closing it, she stood again and lifted her hands to the mask.

He dropped his arms to his sides, resigned._ Let her see_. He could tell by the wistful look on her face that to her, the mystery of the monster was romantic, but what she did not know was that his story would not end like the fairy tales. Her beast would not become a prince. Her beast was more monster than she could have imagined.

The cool air of the room was unwelcome on his tender skin. He winched, but kept his eyes open, watching as her expression flew from wonderment to startled to fearful.

He almost laughed.

"Erik," she whispered, "oh, Erik."

He slapped her hands away. The mask tumbled to the floor.

He hadn't looked in a mirror weeks, especially not without the mask firmly in place. He never played his piano violin unmasked for fear that his grotesque face would be revealed in the fine, perfect finish.

And in one moment, the months of blissful blindness were shattered. He saw the reflection of it now in her eyes: the pallid, twisted flesh was stretched painfully tight over sharp bone, thin muscle, and blue, spidery veins. His cheeks were prominent, but they only served to exacerbate the corpse-like, sunken eye orbits, and dilapidated nose. His skin was clammy and beneath the flesh, his nerve endings misfired, as distorted as the facade that housed them, creating a constant source of burning, sharp pain. The disfigurement had not affected his eyes, mouth, or chin, but they didn't need to. The rest of his face had already been ravaged by the devil.

Christine tried to step back, but Erik grabbed her chin and forced her to look. Her lips trembled and she swallowed nervously.

"That's what I thought," he sneered and then pushed her away.

He bent down to retrieve his mask and then walked to the window. The snow was coming down in droves now, the thick flakes falling rhythmically in a silver, crocheted sheet. Kids were already outside playing, lobbing snowballs at each other and erecting bulbous men with sticks for arms. A pang of desire shuddered through him. He never built a snow man, never played with others in the throws of winter hysterics. Instead, Erik struggled with his reflection in the panes of the window, much like he did now, watching, wishing, hoping.

He closed his eyes. For a moment, when she'd played the violin, grasping his melody and weaving her own counterpart into it, he had tasted what it would be like to be with someone, to not be alone.

But his face was a stark reminder of what could and would not be.

He forced his movements to be cool and graceful as he placed the mask over his face and laced the ties together. The warmth of the leather settled down his nerves, allowed him to breathe without feeling like icicles were being driven into his lungs.

"I appreciate," he began, proud of the steadiness of his voice, "your _attempt_ to befriend me, Christine, but it won't work. Please, go before anything else happens here."

He listened to her pack up her violin and flinched at the clicks of the case's locks. The door clicked and the hinged groaned under their breath. Erik let out a sigh. She was going. _Thank god_ she was going.

"Do you know why I wanted you to play for me without the mask?" She didn't wait for his answer. "Because that's the real you. Idiot."

By the time he turned around, she was gone, the bandage still lying on his floor.

* * *

Erik returned to Changing Faces about three months later. It had taken considerable courage for him to finally convince himself to go. He had developed a nitch for himself, a strength, in the years he'd attended without a single missed meeting, and now he felt like a boy going to a new school.

How odd it was to walk back through those linoleum-plated hallways and into the cold, concrete room with the circle of folding chairs. Nothing had changed, really, except for the addition of some new faces amidst the smattering of old faces.

Christine's was not one of them.

Margaret was elated to see him. She walked towards him, smiling happily, and reached forward to put a hand on his shoulder.

"Erik," she breathed. "I never thought I'd see you again. How have you been?"

"I've been well. I did some writing for a music conservatory, and that took up a great deal of my time."

It wasn't a lie, per say. He had done a considerable amount of work for the conservatory. He could have easily made it to group, but he'd been too ashamed, afraid he'd see_ her._ Now that he was here, he was both disappointed and annoyed that she was not. He had worked himself up for nothing.

"I'm sorry for worrying you. I know you called quite often," he continued and then cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable with her beaming smile. "And you, Margaret, how have you been?"

"Good, I've been good. I'm going to be speaking in San Fransisco next month at a conference. It's quite a big step for me! And the group has been chugging along, as usual. I hope we'll be seeing you more often."

"I think you will."

She started to walk away, but then turned back to him abruptly. "I have something for you! Don't let me forget to give it to you after group, okay?"

He nodded and then took his seat.

Had it really been nearly six months since the last time he sat here, listening to others narrate the stories that had lived and suffered? He sunk down into his seat and crossed his arms over his chest while Margaret introduced two new members and reintroduced him as a returning, long term member. There were awkward glances and a few raised eyebrows, but otherwise, no one focused on him for very long.

He felt like he had returned home.

At the end of the session, one of the new members approached Erik. He was a young man in his early twenties with severe, gnarled burn scars marring about three-fourths of his face. His eyes were the brightest blue Erik had ever seen. He swallowed like he was marching to his execution, but he stood in front of Erik with his head held high.

"Hi. My name is Mark. I just…" He stumbled over his words and then clamped his mouth shut.

Erik held his hand out. "Nice to meet you."

A little color returned to the boy's face as he grasped Erik's hand and shook it.

"I'm sorry to bug you, but I wanted to ask where you got your mask." He took a deep breath. "I've been trying to go out in public, you know? Since it healed. But people stare, and I just feel like I'd rather they stare at a mask instead of gawk at my actual face."

Erik felt a pang in his heart, like he was staring at himself almost two decades before. "Do you have a pen?"

"Uh, sure." The boy dug through his messenger bag and produced a small notebook and a pen.

"I'm going to give you Alejandro's name. He will take care of you. It won't be cheap, but it will last you years." He scribbled a name and phone number on the notepad before returning it to the boy. "A word of advice, though. Don't wear it all the time."

Mark blinked at him stupidly. "What? Why?"

"Life only gets harder when even you can't look at yourself." Erik clapped him on the shoulder. "See you next week."

He was beelining it for the doors, suddenly overwhelmed, when Margaret stopped him.

"Erik! Wait!"

He turned and watched her dig frantically through her purse. She produced a folded piece of paper, crumpled at the edges, like it had been stored there for ages.

"Christine dropped this off a month or two ago and told me to give it to you if you ever came back. She's singing in a musical at the theater downtown. The group went and saw her a couple weekends ago. She's really good."

Erik took the paper from Margaret like she was handing him the Holy Grail and unfolded it carefully. It was a colorful flyer for a production of the Beauty and the Beast at the Park End Theater. Erik nearly started laughing at the horrible, delicious irony, thanked Margaret, and hurried out the door.

Erik called to reserve tickets on his way home for the following weekend.

* * *

Was it the best show he'd ever seen? Of course not, but for am amateur production, he tried not to be too harsh. The set was well done, though the castle was lack luster at best, and the costumes were well sewn but obviously made by the crew. The beast's make up wasn't phenomenal, but it wasn't horrible. The cast was decent. He enjoyed the robust portrayal of the beast and "Be Our Guest" was a little rough, but he could tell everyone had enjoyed themselves immensely. In general, it was good, but nothing more.

He wasn't sure if the make up artist had been bad or if Christine had demanded they not cover up her scarred face, but it seemed like there was no attempt to hide it. She flounced across the stage without hindrance, though, happily turning that side of her face to the audience.

It didn't matter. She'd been perfect.

The theater emptied out slowly and Erik waited until most of the cast and crew were gone before he slipped backstage. It wasn't a grandiose theater, but there were several dressing rooms. One was labeled with Christine's name and decorated with the iconic Beauty and the Beast rose.

He knocked twice before her voice echoed through the door.

"Come in."

She stood at the vanity, no longer wearing the flamboyant gold dress even though her hair was still pulled back in the Belle-esque style, decorated with roses. Several bouquets of flowers littered tables and shelves around the room, and a closet door was plastered with a variety of cards.

She didn't turn around, just said, "Hi, Erik."

He exhaled the breath he'd been holding. "Hello, Christine."

She turned around to face him. She smiled slightly, but her emotions were carefully guarded. He couldn't tell if she was happy to see him or disappointed.

"Your performance was wonderful," he said. It sounded weak, even to him.

"Thank you. I wondered if you'd come. I take it you returned to group."

He nodded. "I did. Last week."

"I see. That's good." She put on her coat and then grabbed her purse. Her dark eyes met his, the smile gone. "I'm actually going to dinner with some of the cast. Maybe we can catch up later?"

"No." The word came out of his mouth before he could stop himself. He cleared his throat and stepped towards her. "No, I would like to catch up now."

The months since their last meeting hadn't served to cool her down. Her voice was low, calculating, angry. "You've got some nerve talking to me like that after you treated me like you did."

He nodded. "Yes, I know."

"You are shallow. A shallow idiot. You let your own stupid vision of yourself push me away. You decided for me. Taking off the mask was just a self pity party of theatrics for you."

It stung, her vision of him, but he said, simply, "I know that, too."

"I mean, I broke up with my boyfriend after I met you, and you didn't even give me a chance. You were awful to me, and you scared me, but god forbid you ever gave me a chance to explain a single thing to you."

She was rambling now, saying things he doubted she wanted to say, but it still struck him between the ribs like a knife to the heart, anyway.

He had wondered ever since their last meeting what she had really felt, afraid that he'd been right, that she was just attracted to the romanticism of loving a monster and the dream had been shattered once he'd revealed himself to her.

He stepped forward. "You have to understand, Christine."

"Understand what? That you're damaged goods? I'd hoped that me showing up at your apartment the way I did would have convinced you that I don't really give a damn about that, even if you scared me, but it didn't, so no, I don't understand."

She was gaining momentum, fueling the anger she'd bottled up for weeks, and he knew he had very little time before she stormed past him and ended it all.

"You have to understand," he said quietly, "I didn't realize you were trying to love me, not at the time."

She flinched like he'd shot her. "Excuse me?"

Beneath the mask, his face felt warm. This was absolutely humiliating- he'd even practiced in front of the mirror- but he continued, forcing the words out like gravel. "You showed me your face because you loved me. Isn't that right? You'd fallen in love with me?"

She was turning a sickly shade of green.

"I don't think I've ever loved before, Christine. With this face, it seemed impossible. I need to know now. Why did you want me to play without the mask?"

"I need to go."

She started forward, looking down at her shoes and intent on pushing past him, but he grabbed her arm and held on.

"Christine."

Slowly, she looked up at him. When their eyes met, he reached up for the ties of his mask.

"If you tell me to stop now, I will not come to you again. I promise."

She inhaled raggedly but said nothing.

The string holding the mask onto his face slipped easily, and he let the hunk of leather fall between them. It landed with a soft whisper on the cold floor of the dressing room. For a fleeting moment, he felt free. He had never removed his mask so willingly, not even at night when he was readying for bed. Sometimes he slept with it on, afraid of every reason someone would have of coming into his apartment uninvited. A fire, a burglary, whatever.

This was different.

The freedom was fleeting, though. He thought he'd prepared himself for the look that would cross her face, but he wasn't expecting this.

She was _crying_.

All of his intentions died out, doused by her tears, and he let her go, stepping back. He hadn't expected her to cry. He hadn't expected her to weep at the sight of his face. A black hole was forming in his stomach, causing everything to churn as it ate him from the inside out. He apologized and blindly reached down for his mask.

Her purse dropped next to his mask with a loud thud, and then her hands were on his face, cool and trembling.

"Look at me," she commanded, her voice tearful.

He did.

She started crying anew, tears streaming rivers down her face.

"Sing for me," she whispered.

He sang a wordless melody and time dragged it's heels until he was sure the horrific, disgraceful moment would never end. He closed his eyes as his voice faded. He couldn't bare to see her face any longer.

This was a mistake.

"Erik."

Her voice was steadier now.

"Erik, stop acting like a little boy and look at me."

Even during a moment like this, she pushed, abused his buttons. He was baring himself, cutting down to the quick to appease her, and she called him a child? He opened his eyes and nearly spat a insult.

It was a simple kiss. A child's kiss. A dry peck on the lips and only a mere second of connection before it was done.

But it shook him to the core.

They stared at each other, wide eyed, before she started to giggle. Within moments, the giggle erupted into a hysterical fit of musical laughter. She doubled over, one arm crossed over her stomach, and heaved through the hysterics.

For one heart wrenching moment, he had to wonder, was she laughing at him? His stomach dropped to his feel and he nearly shoved her away. He would control himself, though. For her sake. For his own sake. Before the violence took him over, he snatched his mask from the floor and turned to leave, but her hand in the crook of his arm stopped him.

"I think I might love you," she breathed, her voice still stuck in the throes of giddy laughter.

He looked at her face, at her bright eyes, and dropped the mask again._ Ah_, he thought, feeling sheepish and stupid, like he was much younger than he was.

Impulse tore through him, and when he scooped her into his arms, her smile fell away but her hand rose, fingers tracing the planes of his disfigured face until the motion became the familiar chords of a sweet, tempestuous Moonlight Sonata.


End file.
